


With a Wolflike Sharpness

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Breeding, Breeding stand, Dom/sub Undertones, Knotting, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scratching, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, pseudo-bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is a werewolf, John is not, and during full moons, they have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My girlfriend asked for savage sex between shapeshifted!Sherlock and human!John. I tried. ♥

The morning after the full moon, John looks like he’s been mauled. His knees are bruised; his lip is split and swollen; he has deep scratches along his back; and the scar from the bullet wound on his left shoulder is puffed up, red, and mottled with dried blood.

“Was all of this really necessary?” he asks Sherlock, who stands behind him in the loo, watching him clean the wounds on his shoulder with pleased, half-lidded eyes. As the damp flannel in John’s hand flakes away the blood crusted around fresh teeth marks and claw marks, Sherlock practically purrs with delight.

“Your skin smelled of Lestrade. I found the scent… offensive.”

John thinks back to the previous day. “He touched my shoulder for half a second, through three layers of clothes, and that was _hours_ before.”

“Offensive,” Sherlock says, and smiles when one of the bite marks begins to bleed again.

*

John goes through clothes at what should be a truly disturbing rate.

“You should know better than to bother wearing clothing,” Sherlock says, sprawled on the sofa while John examines his shredded shirt and the bits of his trousers scattered about the floor.

“ _You_ should learn some sodding patience,” John answers peevishly.

But every full moon, he buys a new shirt, new trousers, new pants, and new socks, and doesn’t bother washing them before he wears them. So the outfit surely smells strange, like the shop and the customers who laid their hands on it before John, that night when Sherlock tears every bit of it from his body, growling viciously as the fabric rips like flesh under his claws.

*

“You squirm too much,” Sherlock says. He’s skimming one of John’s medical journals while John sits beside him on the sofa, responding to comments on his blog.

“Er.” John looks up, taken aback. “I wasn’t aware I was squirming.”

“Not _now_.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “During the full moon. You squirm. I don’t like it. It makes me think you mean to fight me.”

Fighting Sherlock is the last thing on John’s mind. He squirms because he loves it: being fucked by a werewolf in whatever room he happens to be in when Sherlock finds him, in the middle of the floor because Sherlock always wants him _right then_ , surrounded by a mess of torn clothing, and being scratched and bitten and crushed beneath Sherlock’s weight. It’s probably good that werewolves can’t transform at will; John would want it constantly.

“Perhaps I should invest in a breeding stand,” says Sherlock. He calmly turns a page in the journal. “If you refuse to stay still while you’re being bred.”

John’s skin feels unnaturally warm, and his mouth goes dry, toes curling in his socks at the thought. “Oh,” he says breathlessly, and sees Sherlock’s lip curl in a smirk.

*

Pop culture might be full of tripe about people recognising the “man beneath the beast” and all that, but the wolf snuffling at John’s bottom now doesn’t resemble Sherlock that much at all. Sherlock as a human doesn’t have yellowish eyes, a thick coat of shaggy black fur, or curved claws at least an inch long, which catch on the carpet fibres every time he moves his gigantic paws.

Sherlock as a wolf is also bloody _massive_ : muscular and hulking in a way that makes the beginnings of fear spike in John’s gut and adrenaline pound its rhythm through his body, even though he trusts Sherlock wholeheartedly, knows that Sherlock would stop immediately if John asks.

John just doesn’t ever particularly want to.

“Remember,” he tells Sherlock, “what I said a few weeks ago about patience?”

Sherlock ignores him, far more intent on nosing at the base of the plug in John’s arse and growling and snarling every time John tries to wave him away.

“You knob, if you’d just _let me_ —”

Finally, John manages to shove his snout aside, and although Sherlock’s growl turns dark and dangerous, he allows it long enough for John to grasp the plug and pull. It pops out with a loud squelch, and John hisses in discomfort. It’s thick, the biggest they own, because although he might prefer minimal preparation when Sherlock is like this, he doesn’t fancy an anal fissure.

Sherlock is on him before he can even set the plug aside. It falls to the floor, smearing lubricant on the carpet, as John is mounted. Sherlock plants his paws on John’s shoulder blades, claws digging into skin, and forces John’s chest to the floor, holding him down with his arse in the air so his slick, loosened hole can be filled with Sherlock’s cock.

John gasps, hands scrambling uselessly at the carpet. Sherlock’s prick is thick and long, no more so than when he’s human, but without the thorough, painstaking preparation Sherlock always insists on when he has fingers instead of claws, it feels enormous. It stings gloriously, and John’s given no time to adjust before he’s being fucked forcefully enough that his face is shoved into the floor and his cheeks, shoulders, and knees scrape against the carpet with every thrust.

“Fuck.” John sounds nothing like himself, half whining and half yowling, as blood begins to drip from the fresh claw marks on his shoulders. It hurts, of course, but the pain floats somewhere on the edges of his awareness, somewhere beyond the sublimely brutal sensation of Sherlock pounding into him.

Every few thrusts, Sherlock’s cock drags across his prostate, the pressure brief but intense, but that’s pure accident, John knows. Sherlock doesn’t care a whit about his pleasure at the moment; he only cares that John isn’t stopping him, is keeping his head down and his bottom up and letting himself be used.

John whimpers shamefully at the thought. Yes, he’s being very useful right now. His own prick, hard and throbbing, hangs uselessly between his legs, bouncing as Sherlock fucks him. The room is filled with the sounds of his own helpless cries, the loud slapping of his arse against Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock’s low, contented rumbling.

John feels so full, so warm. He wants to come so badly, but he needs his hands to keep himself from skidding across the carpet as he is buggered. He tries to rock into Sherlock’s thrusts, to angle himself so that Sherlock is pounding his sweet spot with every thrust. He’s never come from penetration alone, but maybe, just maybe this time—

Then Sherlock’s paws are gone, and the massive weight is lifted from his back, although Sherlock’s cock stays firmly rooted in him. Not climbing off, then, but giving John the opportunity to sit up and take himself in hand.

_Thank god_ , John thinks. He raises himself to his hands and knees, and reaches for his neglected prick.

The weight abruptly returns as Sherlock drapes himself along his back, but this time it’s accompanied by a pressure on John’s nape and the prick of teeth against the sensitive skin there.

Sherlock growls in clear warning, and John feels the vibrations of it all along his spine and trembles, his hand falling back to the floor. The growling stops immediately, and Sherlock returns to fucking him, his frightfully sharp teeth digging into John’s nape—just barely breaking skin.

Oh. John realises. _‘You squirm too much,’_ Sherlock had said. And then— _‘If you refuse to stay still while you’re being bred.’_ That’s what he is now, isn’t it? A bitch being held in place and bred.

“Christ,” John moans weakly. “Oh god. _Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock’s cock swells inside him, the knot beginning to form, and John feels full enough to burst. His jaw drops, letting loose a string of pitiful “ah, ah, ahs” from his throat as Sherlock fucks him even more ruthlessly, making deep rumbling sounds around his mouthful of John’s skin. Maybe he could come like this, John thinks, if it kept on _just like this_ for a few minutes longer—

Sherlock goes still, and a rush of warmth floods John’s arse.

“No,” he cries, hips jerking, trying to fuck himself some more even as the knot swells thicker inside him. “No, no, please, Sherlock, just a little—”

Sherlock’s response is a sharp growl, and then his teeth clamp down more savagely on John’s nape. John feels a fat drop of blood trickle down his neck, and fear surges in his gut; his chest tightens, and his heartbeat seems to stutter. Sherlock wouldn’t hurt him, he reminds himself—but he could. _Oh_ , he could. Sherlock could snap his neck effortlessly, peel all the skin from his back in a single motion.

John holds himself utterly, perfectly still, though he throbs and aches with need. He can feel his pulse in the veins of his cock, can hear it pounding in his ears. Time slows and the world goes soft and hazy for a long, long while, until finally Sherlock’s prick softens enough that he can withdraw.

John returns to awareness in time to feel come begin to leak from his hole, and Sherlock’s snout press between his arse cheeks so he can lick up the mess with quick, rough swipes of his tongue.

John’s weak and quivering limbs give, and he collapses to his stomach. Sherlock follows, still lapping insistently at John’s sloppy, sensitive hole.

“Oh,” John moans, trying to spread himself wide. “Please.” He has rules, usually, about how close Sherlock’s werewolf teeth can get to his prick and bollocks, but he doesn’t much care now. “Just a lick, just one, please.”

Sherlock snorts—in amusement, he’s not so un-Sherlock-like as a wolf that John doesn’t know precisely what that sound means—and then backs away. John hears his massive paws padding across the carpet and turns his head to see Sherlock buggering off towards the sofa, then leaping on top of it and curling up in a way that’s more catlike than wolf.

_Bastard_ , John thinks without heat. _You utter, utter bastard._

He could wank himself now; only a stroke or two would do, as wound up as he is. Sherlock probably wouldn’t bother to stop him.

But of course John won’t. John will stay right where he is, so turned-on that shame is a distant memory, his cock hard and drooling on the carpet, until Sherlock wants his arse again.

It won’t be long now, he knows. It never is, during the full moon.

*

“Anything on the website?” John asks. He’s curled on his side on the sofa: a failed attempt to keep the come from leaking out his arse and all over the cushion. It dribbles out anyway, joining the long-dried streaks on his thighs.

Everything hurts. His muscles ache; the teeth and claw marks sting; he has carpet burn on his hands and knees; and the next time he goes to the toilet will be a nightmare.

He probably stinks something awful as well, but Sherlock, seated beside him, doesn’t seem to notice.

“Nothing _interesting_ ,” Sherlock answers with a scowl.

“Mm.” John stretches contentedly and tucks his feet beneath Sherlock’s thighs.


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock acquires a breeding stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people wanted a sequel with a breeding stand, which at first I didn't want to do and then later didn't want to do and then even later didn't want to do, and then one day I just, well, did. So here it is. <3?

The breeding stand is massive.

The flat metal base is nearly the length of John’s full body and twice the width. Two thick metal poles, one a bit taller than the other, protrude from it, and atop each pole is a fur-lined strip of leather with a buckle at one end.

“Rabbit fur,” Sherlock says, standing behind him as John kneels to examine more closely. He sounds utterly blissful. “Intended to reduce discomfort, of course, but as a side effect… you’ll smell like _prey_.”

Which is precisely what John will be. Prey that is already conquered for Sherlock, trapped and left on a proverbial silver platter to be toyed with and devoured as Sherlock sees fit. He shivers at the thought.

Standing, John grabs one of the poles and tries to lift the base off the floor. He manages, but only just, and his muscles burn from the effort.

Once he’s in the breeding stand, he will be quite literally tethered in place.

“Where the hell did you get this?” he wonders.

“Internet. A werewolf fetish site, to be precise,” Sherlock answers. “Rest assured that no matter how shameful you may think your desires, you are not alone in having them.”

_Lucky for us, I suppose_ , John thinks.

Because the most shameful part of this whole thing is how much he’s looking forward to it.

*

Sherlock positions the breeding stand against the wall in the bedroom and fixes a water bottle—the sort you might clip to the side of a hamster cage, except much larger—to the wall in front of it. The spout is close enough that when John’s neck is buckled in the leather strap, John won’t even need to move to close his lips around it and suckle.

“You’ll need to remain hydrated somehow,” Sherlock tells him. “I’ll hardly be capable of fetching you a glass of water from the tap.”

It’s bollocks, of course. John’s arms will still be free, and he’ll be perfectly capable of unbuckling himself if he needs to.

Although, John knows, he won’t want to.

So he nods, shuffling his feet, as arousal burns inside him and his cock thickens in his trousers.

*

It is 21:37, less than a half hour until dusk, and John is strapped into place while Sherlock fingers him open.

The leather strap around his neck is slightly looser than the one around his waist, which is so tight that if he tries to wriggle it digs painfully into his belly.

Still, the collar only allows John enough movement to tip his head a bit before it begins to make swallowing and breathing difficult, which isn’t pleasant, so he remains facing the wall, staring at the plastic water bottle in front of him.

Sherlock has laid a plush towel atop the base of the breeding stand, curling the ends around each pole, and John grips it with both hands while Sherlock probes his arse, slathering the tight little ring of muscle with lube and filling him with three, then four long fingers. Sherlock has also set a deep plastic tray beneath John’s hips in case John needs to have a piss during the night.

_Helpless_ doesn’t even begin to describe how John feels. _Subhuman_ might be slightly more accurate. Sherlock is the one transforming into a gigantic wolf, yet John is the one with the litter tray, the one that needs to be tethered to a stand so he’ll behave.

“Shush,” Sherlock says, the first thing he’s said in nearly ten minutes, and John realises a string of soft, breathy moans is falling from his lips. “I’m almost finished. Then I’ll breed you, I promise.”

_Breed me_ , John thinks, sucking in a sharp breath. _Oh god yes_.

True to his word, Sherlock removes his fingers soon after, and then John hears the unmistakable sound of a zip being undone. Sherlock undressing in preparation for the change, he assumes.

Except a moment later, the wall darkens with the shadow of Sherlock looming over him, and Sherlock’s left hand clasps his hip.

“Erm,” John says, puzzled. “You… Sherlock, we’ve only got—”

“Nearly 20 full minutes until I transform,” says Sherlock. He rubs the tip of his cock along the cleft of John’s arse, lingering on the slick, sensitive rim, which opens easily with only a bit of pressure. “Plenty of time for a taste.”

Then John’s mind quickly grows hazy under the ache of being stuffed full, and he simply bites his lip and lets himself be bred.

*

Sherlock retreats to the sitting room for privacy while his human body breaks down so it can be reformed, and John is left in his breeding stand breathless and hard. Come dribbles down his thighs.

He wants more. He wants more so badly he knows he should be ashamed of it, the way his arse clenches as he remembers how Sherlock felt in him, fucking him as though John’s entire purpose were simply to stand here and take it.

And for tonight, John supposes, that _is_ his purpose. His toes curl at the thought.

He hears a floorboard in the hallway creak, followed by the approaching sound of claws catching on fibres and a massive weight padding across the carpet.

John’s heartbeat spikes, and a thrill shoots through his spine.

As a general rule, humans don’t fuck werewolves. The danger is too great; if a claw or a tooth snags his skin just right, even on accident, John could bleed out in a matter of minutes.

But he loves this. Christ, John loves this.

He stays still and silent, nearly shaking with anticipation, until he feels a warm wet nose nudge between his arse cheeks, followed by a smooth tongue lapping at his hole.

“Oh god.”

John’s jaw drops, and he wants desperately to lower himself to his forearms and stick his bottom in the air, spread his legs wide for Sherlock’s tongue. But the breeding stand prevents it, so John can only remain where he is, slack-jawed with pleasure while Sherlock eats his arse.

And it does feel very much like being eaten. Sherlock’s tongue, which is longer and stronger than when he is human, is shoved in as far as it will go, and the noise of it licking sloppily into John’s hole is not unlike the sound of a dog with its muzzle deep in its food dish.

_He’s licking his come from my arsehole,_ John realises. It’s only just occurred to him when suddenly Sherlock’s tongue withdraws from his arse and trails down one thigh, then up the other, lapping up the come that’s leaked out.

“Oh god,” John says again. His hole feels wet and used and messy—and the night has barely even begun. “Oh god, Sherlock.”

With a low, rough growl, Sherlock rises to his hind legs and mounts him.

Usually, John would reach back and help Sherlock aim his cock into John’s waiting hole, but the breeding stand doesn’t afford him the leverage or range of motion to do so. Nor does Sherlock expect it, clearly, since he shoves right in without hesitation, despite the awkward angle.

John gasps, trying to throw his head back, but stopping short when the strap bites into his jugular. Sherlock’s claws scrape his low back, just below the strap around his waist, and if it doesn’t break the skin, it certainly comes close. It’s a sweet, stinging pain, and it distracts him nicely from the discomfort of the penetration.

Sherlock gives him less than a second to get used to it, and then his weight settles flat on John’s back and John is being ruthlessly fucked, with enough force that he’s jerked forwards with every thrust.

The leather straps dig into his throat and belly, fleetingly enough that his breathing isn’t obstructed, but still often enough that the breeding stand holding him captive, rather than the werewolf pounding him from behind, dominates his attention.

It makes him feel weak, defenceless. Being bred like a bitch in heat, forced to stay still and take it. Sherlock’s cock strays far from his prostate, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to care at all. Of course not: that’s not John’s purpose, is it, not now.

_Oh please_ , John wants to moan, but he’s gasping too heavily for words. Behind him, on top of him, Sherlock is panting harshly, his breath a constant rush of heat against the back of John’s neck. Sweat begins to drip down his nape, then his temples. His tongue is dry, his throat beginning to hurt.

Fortunately, it’s easy enough to take the water bottle’s spout between his lips and suck a bit of lukewarm water into his mouth.

Unfortunately, he chokes as he swallows, and most of it spills down his chin.

It reminds him of having his mouth fucked, pumped so full of come it dribbles from the corners of his lips, which makes him think of being filled from both ends.

John puts his mouth to the spout again and keeps it there, squeezes his eyes shut to savour the fantasy: Sherlock as a werewolf behind him, buggering him senseless—and Sherlock as a human in front of him, diabolically sweet and gentle as he fills John’s mouth with cock and praises him for letting himself be bred like a good boy, an obedient bitch, while John slobbers all over his own face and moans happily at how brilliant it feels, spitroasted on his two favourite cocks.

John is whimpering around the spout, lost, when Sherlock begins to come, growling low and long into John’s ear while his knot swells in John’s arse.

*

When Sherlock isn’t fucking or knotting John, he is pacing in a semicircle around the breeding stand, watching him. John can see his massive black shape in his peripheral vision, and he can feel Sherlock’s stare as vividly as a physical touch, a slow continual sweep across his entire body.

The whole time he paces, Sherlock makes a soft rumbling sound, something between a humanlike hum and a catlike purr. John strongly suspects, although he has no proof, that it indicates contentment. There is, after all, a lot for Sherlock to be content about.

Like the fact that John’s inner thighs are coated in a layer of dried come, and even more leaks from his sore, loose hole. John doesn’t need a werewolf’s senses to know he stinks of sex, stinks of _Sherlock_ and sex. Sherlock’s claim on him is as obvious as the scratches on John’s lower back, which he is now certain drew blood; they sting too much to have not done.

And though John’s limbs are weak, shaking, and his mind is foggy, his cock is still hard—positively throbbing with neglect and drooling such a steady stream of precome he’s probably filled the plastic piss tray with it by now.

If he were being fucked, John thinks—and fucked properly, that is, on his hands and knees with his arse in the air and his face in the carpet and Sherlock biting his neck, Sherlock’s cock in him so deep he can feel it in his throat—then maybe he could come from it. It feels like it, anyway. It’s all John can think about, how badly he wants it. How wet he is between his arse cheeks, how empty he is without a knot to plug him up, how useless he feels when he’s not being bred.

“Please,” John says. His voice is hoarse—he ran out of water a long time ago—and his entire body feels raw. A sob swells in his throat and finds its way from his lips. “I can unbuckle myself, and you can still… please, Sherlock, just fuck me, I need it—”

Sherlock surges towards him with a snarl and mounts him again.

*

By sunrise, John’s erection has finally begun to flag and he’s half-asleep, his body limp in the breeding stand, although a sudden touch to his hip rouses him.

Skin—human. Sherlock’s hand. It grasps one side of John’s ileum crest as though Sherlock means to steady him—although John is far, far past the point of anything remotely resembling _stable_. He stopped feeling his limbs ages ago, and the skin on his neck and his belly are on fire, rubbed raw by the straps of the breeding stand despite the soft lining of rabbit fur.

The grip on his hips moves to John’s arse and pries his cheeks apart, wide enough that John’s tender, overused hole stretches a bit, and John moans at the burn. He imagines what it must look like now: red, puffy, still gaping and dribbling Sherlock’s come.

“Happy?” he asks, barely a croak, but Sherlock understands him perfectly.

“No.” A finger circles the aching rim and dips briefly inside while John hisses and clenches but doesn’t protest. “If I’d spent the entire night inside you, stuffing you full of my knot and breeding you until you were swollen with my come, I still wouldn’t be satisfied.”

_And you hardly even got the chance to mark me up_ , John thinks, but hasn’t the energy to say.

And then he can’t say anything at all, because Sherlock is pushing inside him and all John’s breath leaves his body in a startled whoosh.

It’s too much. Sherlock isn’t even hard and it’s too much. John feels wrecked, powerless, utterly used—yet when Sherlock is fully seated in John’s arse, his cock gives a little jerk, thickens just a bit, and John wishes his arms didn’t feel like sodden twigs so he could reach behind him and spread his cheeks and tell Sherlock to _give it to me, please, just give me more_.

But John can only manage a weak cry, something between a moan and a sob, as Sherlock rocks his half-hard prick into him in tiny testing thrusts.

“That’s it,” Sherlock says. “Just a bit longer, then I’ll let you out. Good boy.”

John sobs again, his eyes fluttering closed, and lets himself be fucked.


End file.
